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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762454">Keep still, and wait</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern'>CravenWyvern</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DS Extras [96]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Don't Starve (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complicated Relationships, Cuddling, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, headcanons galore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:13:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>DS Extras [96]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Keep still, and wait</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was only a few hours before dawn that Maxwell finally slipped into the tent. </p><p>The night had been quiet, the warming spring air awakening the ambient insects and whispering trees from winter's firm grasp, and by now the dredges of today were weighing on him quite terribly. Something had gone off about the gardens, last full moon leaving the plants slightly engorged and swollen, and the overgrowth was equal parts odd and horrifying; the entire day had been spent in cleaning the mess up, yanking out the plants and tearing up the clawing roots, juggling whether to keep certain super vegetables or toss them, and Maxwell was no gardner by any means but whatever had happened to the gardens today was only the beginning, he could feel it.</p><p>Last weeks trip into the caves, the spongy flooded basins brimming with moon shards and magics not meant to integrate as deep as they had into the Constant, have left the former Nightmare King with the impression of a vast foreboding nature. Something was coming, and he may not know what but with each passing day the anxiety layered on thicker, the nightmare fuel slick, excited and vibrating that pins and needles, his very blood boiling in a nervous shudder every time he so much as <i>thought</i> of the moon and the madness that now orbited the theories and gossip all about camp. Working with the Shadow Manipulator was becoming a hazard, the fuel erratic and unpredictable in his hands, though so far no one else has got it into their mind to mess with the dark magic. As of late <i>"Moon"</i> magic has become the more popular focus, and while Maxwell has stepped back from touching the stuff, unnerved by what had happened in the deep tunnels of the caves, he can be grateful at the very least that the others were fine leaving him to his own business. </p><p>If anyone found out just how...chaotic the shadow machines were acting in camp, no doubt they'd want them removed and the practice dissolved, and even at this point that was something Maxwell could not allow. </p><p>He'd not be valued half as much without the little power he had left and, as he knew quite well, if he had no use here there would be no reason for him to be tolerated for much longer. A logical train of thought, experience told him that, and the former Nightmare King would do everything his meager power can achieve to ensure that weakness wouldn't be found out and thus torn from the roots. </p><p>If that meant little white lies escaping his lips every once in a while, or perhaps a bit more grave digging and ruin excavation than usual, then that was what was required. Shouldering the consequences of heightened fuel use far made up for not being exiled from camp from some sort of perceived <i>uselessness.</i></p><p>The numbing pins and needles had finally eased up a fair bit tonight, and now that he's been avoiding the section of camp dedicated to the "Moon" the feverish chill has left as well, but insomnia crept its way in and settled right on down and Maxwell has found that sitting by the fire was preferable to laying out in some vain attempt to rest. The stress that has been weighing upon him these last few seasons seemed to infected the very air about him, made tempers shorter as he snapped and snarled at whoever decided to bother him and his business next, and the introduction of all this "Moon" hype has made it far easier to distance himself lately, keep the air clear for awhile.</p><p>Unfortunately, when exhaustion became deep fatigue and deep fatigue became something far, far worse, a deprivation that had him unsteady and unobservant enough, Maxwell did have to raise an internal white flag and make some sort of attempt to rest himself. He could always head out to some smaller camp, lay out in a worn out tent and stare at the ceiling for hours before giving up, but that just never seemed to work in his favor.</p><p>So, instead, he had swallowed the displeased sense of <i>wrongness</i> and the bitter shame of giving in to finally enter the shared tent he had within the camp walls. His exhaustion wore on him, it had raised its head when he had been put to work with those damnable gardens and now he's suffered the few glances the others were giving him, narrow eyed looks of suspicion that crawled up his spine and sparked some inner flame of frustration within his chest, and it was enough to have to make a change in how he handled the fatigue.</p><p>Unless he removed himself from camp entirely, he supposed, but at this point that would render all the work he has done to <i>ensure</i> his place here into a waste. Once it became clear all he did was for nothing, then the former Nightmare King can take his leave with little less than a bow and more of a half remembered disappearing act. </p><p>The razor and cliffs would always be around, after all.</p><p>For now, curling his nose at the unfortunately familiar smell of lived in space, stinking furs and human odor and stuffy air in a stuffy excuse for a tent, Maxwell made do with what he had to live with. </p><p>The other occupant of the tent itself didn't react to his intrusion, fast asleep and curled up with a sprawling nest of blankets and bedding, but at least Wilson wasn't much of a snorer.</p><p> </p><p>The man had been making not so subtle remarks as of late, the worry and concern in his eyes getting harder to ignore as Maxwell focused himself entirely in trying to wrangle the shadow machines back under his control, and it was unbelievably frustrating by now. A part of him felt almost <i>disgusted</i>, that it was somehow obvious enough how badly he was fairing, or that the fool even cared enough to check in on him every once in a while, but as he knew from experience telling Wilson off would probably spark a fight and he just did not have the energy to handle that right now. It was easy enough, to brush off words or contact, make it clear he wished to be alone for some unknowable amount of time, and it stressed and strained on him that he had to do so but any alternative would just end him in a far worse place. </p><p>The gentleman scientist has too much to think of to be worrying on Maxwell's state of mind; the camp and its "Moon" interest required much of his attentions, known or not, and even that vein of knowledge that Maxwell could see working its motives behind the stage was just not enough for him to hop on board and attempt to finagle control over. Wilson was not an idiot. A bit gullible, sure, and perhaps naive at times, but he certainly didn't need Maxwell around to tell him that the celestial object in the sky playing its games with the shadows was <i>dangerous.</i></p><p>And, he did have the others. The old woman was far more intrigued with the "Moon" than near any other, Winona was that driving force as she dug for her sisters presence, Wigfrid and Wolfgang had enough will to fight off and vanquish whatever may end up be thrown at them; Maxwell had little worry of what the catastrophe breaching the horizon, when it reached them all, may end up doing. </p><p>...yet, as little as it seemed, the thin needling thread of concern still strung through his chest, still knotted itself in his mind whenever he heard Wilson and the others discussing plans, thoughts, theories. He knew he could do nothing if they made some sort of decision, or when the "Moon" completed its pass and finished what it started, and yet still it tugged enough on him to stick around, offer his own words, as unhelpful and snide as they were, whenever so asked. </p><p>He could leave, whenever he so wished, and yet that dread in the air that no one else has seemed to notice kept him stock still and waiting patiently. Maxwell found it ever harder to convince himself that Wilson knew what he was doing, and that they would all be fine with his absence.</p><p>It was a purely selfish reason to stay, as if his presence was important enough, he certainly had no power over the celestial forces and would be eradicated if that was the "Moons" plan for all that was shadow, and he knew he'd not be much help for whatever may end up being planned, but the point still stands. He could not leave, not yet.</p><p>...Looking over the sleeping man for a moment, pausing as a strained whistle of a sigh escaped his chest, Maxwell, for a moment, didn't quite know if he ever <i>would.</i></p><p>He wanted to, of course, this camp and the approaching movement of foreboding certainly had no use of him, he very much wanted to…<i>remove</i> himself, in not so elegant ways, and yet that rotten thing that still beat within his chest had tied him down and trapped him here until whatever conclusion that was to come would arrive, and he <i>hated</i> that just as much as he wanted to leave. </p><p>These thoughts, this understanding of his helplessness in the situation all due to his own unsteady sense of willpower, had given him a sense of unbalanced placement, and not knowing what he was in all this made the simmer roughen up into a boil most days. If he thought about it too often, he found himself hoping it would be taken out of his clearly uncooperative hands; perhaps exile would end up gracing him, inevitably ruin everything he's ever done, and give him that opportunity to finish and finally take his leave of the stage.</p><p>If only for awhile, if the good Queen of the Constant so chose. Maxwell was sure he wasn't nearly lucky enough to escape just by his own hand, no.</p><p>Not quite a calming thought, but a sure enough conclusion. </p><p>...He was starting to think he couldn't keep doing this, not for much longer. Either the "Moon" will arrive first, or self sabotage will work far faster, and Maxwell was too mentally unsteady to take a guess or even make an attempt to lean one way or another.</p><p> </p><p>As he shifted below the covers, taking measures as to not brush up against the other man, wake him or alert him to his presence, Maxwell didn't truly believe he'd get any sort of rest tonight, not really.</p><p>But whatever it was that was keeping him here seemed to relax ever so slightly as he settled, the air warm and bedding warmer, not close enough to touch but enough to feel the presence of another, someone close by, that loose sense of faded trust, or perhaps false safety, in knowing he wasn't alone right now. It helped dissolve the last of shadow unease, at least on the outskirts of his senses; the rest gathered tight to his core, a heavy mass of anxiety and deep disgust in himself that was easy enough to ignore, easy enough to turn his back and wrap his arms tight about himself, close his eyes and try to chase that mirage of promised rest this warm place gave him.</p><p> </p><p>It didn't arrive, of course not, he didn't have the right sort of luck for that, and he sluggishly planned to get up just a bit before sunrise, escape the warmth here into the spring mornings crisper air and make an attempt to wake himself enough to appear functional. If he could be out before Wilson had some sort of awareness to him being in here, then all the better.</p><p>The key for distancing was that one had to ensure they kept well away, Maxwell knew, eyes closed and body exhausted and strained and that horrid ball of anxieties and frustrated misunderstandings knotted up in his chest, twisted and gnarled and ugly, but he was just too tired to do so. He was, slowly but surely, reaching the finish line, the final sentences to an epilogue, and yet…</p><p>He can't keep this up, can't keep doing this, and yet he didn't want this to end, not yet, not...not ever, maybe.</p><p>Half dozing, moving thoughts sluggish, dark fuel sodden ooze that only barely kept his conscious mind still awake, it only solidified a sense of purposelessness when there was a movement at his back, shifting of the blankets and a vague hesitant pause, right before arms encircled his sides and a body snuggled up behind him and settled down with a content sigh. Enough was awake in him to recognize it, enough to shift, gloved claws tightening around himself and a murmur of complaint as he curled in on himself, but then the other man hummed something against the back of his neck, warm breath exhaled against the collar of his suit jacket and cold skin, and hands tugged him close, warm blankets on top and an even warmer body behind him as he was thoroughly cuddled with.</p><p>When his conscious lucid mind came back to him hours later, the tent lit up from the already risen warm sun, tired and exhausted from the not-quite-sleep he had achieved, Maxwell would drowsily find himself held close, warm and shadow influence shivering from the continual contact, the comforts of another tangling hands around him and holding together in shared presence. It would take too much out of him, to disengage, pull away and unthread and hope it wouldn't wake the other man, wouldn't alert Wilson to him distancing once again to prepare for the inevitable, and it curdled a bitterness within his shadow enwreathed, flooded chest but he was just too god awful tired, just too tired.</p><p>Too tired to pull away, the former Nightmare King would think to himself later, but too awake to see the futility of even continuing. What a curse.</p><p>As it was, his partner wrapped about him and breathing slow against the back of his neck, the solid weight of arms around him and hands clasped to his worn suit, held so close as to lose any sense of tempting touch aversion that usually graced him in foul moods and shadow inebriation, Maxwell huffed a shivery little sigh, half unaware in his exhausted state, and his clawed hands shook ever so slightly but they clumsily clasped to the hands reaching, grabbing for him.</p><p>And, when he was answered in kind, the hug of contact strengthening in reciprocation, the next drained sigh out of him was far closer to a faded sob of relief than any other thing it could have been.</p>
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